


Verwandlung

by TychoBrandt



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Enderal, Sureai
Genre: Endgame, In a sense, Yet another bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:46:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TychoBrandt/pseuds/TychoBrandt
Summary: Seasons. Tides. Phases of the moon. Things change.You change.I don't.--- A small collection of works based on Enderal, a game built using Bethesda Softworks' Creation Engine. This is a rough work in progress and subject to notable change. This has spoilers for the end of the game, so fair warning.





	1. Formung

I watched as Calia rushed up the crumbling stairs of the Vault, zweihänder bouncing against the back of her cuirass. The sound of her boots faded into the darkness.

She kept her head down, not looking back.

It was only then that I realized that I would never see her again.

... And I didn't even say goodbye.

\--- --- ---

_By day I was the Prophet of the Cycle, the slayer of man and beast, illuminator of the forgotten past, liberator of the oppressed._

_But by night... no, I was merely Kurz._

_The world had its Cycle, and so I had mine. I would trundle up the main steps to the Sun Temple, and the gate guards would glance at me, then each other, then me again. With poorly hidden reluctance they would call for the gates to open._

_So there came the sight: a horror of a man mummified in bandages, dented armor awash in drying blood--sometimes mine, sometimes a parting gift--and all eyes would turn upon me, from the novices to the arcanists to the Keepers. Some curious, some afraid, some incredulous... and some disappointed._

_I would push open the doors to the Chronicum and limp up to the second floor, not meeting the gazes of the Nehrimese. They always advice or criticism to impart, but I brushed past them. Only Sha'Rim, watching from across the main chamber, would grant me peace. How I appreciated him for that little mercy._

_And then there it was, my sanctuary--an unused study room converted into 'The Quarters of the Prophet.’ It had a hearth and a window, at the very least. An improvement from sleeping in overgrown caves in the forest and awakening to wolves sniffing at my face._

_Here--and only here--I would shed my plate, shed my aketon, shed my shield and my sword and quiver and pack and stand there naked, in my true skin, not the steel skin that so oft took its place._

_And then I would lay down and pretend that nothing had happened that day and everything was normal._

_To the High Ones, I suppose, everything was normal._

\--- --- ---

I forgot what it felt like to be born. But I'm sure it feels something like teleportation. 

You look at the scroll--a newborn's first glimpse of daylight--and your eyes burn, you feel the runes of power getting sucked through your eyes and crawling into the wrinkles of your brain. And then you feel weightless, heavy, hot and cold and sick, and then there's only darkness and silence for what seems like eternity. And there's always the fear--what if you read the runes wrong? What if they were the wrong runes? What if part of you stays back and the rest of you plops down in the Sun Temple like entrails from a gutted deer? What if--

And then you fall flat on your face, gasping for air, hands clutching desperately at solid ground... At your destination. 

I looked up. 

\--- --- ---

_I opened the door. Jespar was standing there, with a basket of wildflowers._

_"Been taking those bard's songs a little too literally," I said dryly._

_He grinned that misshapen grin of his. "What? You aren't seduced yet?"_

_"Not with dead plants." I sat down and stared out the window. How slowly the clouds moved._

_"Well, the butcher isn't far from the flower stall, so I'll try dead animals next time." He easily shouldered past me, surveying my barren room with a frown. He gestured at the empty hearth. "I've seen cheerier mausoleums than this." He raised the basket. "Thought your prison cell needed a bit of color."_

_"I'll remember to invite Lost Ones for lodging them next time I see them."_

_Jespar said nothing, simply pulling out few pewter cups and arranging them on the lone table, sticking in the flowers as he saw fit._

_"I killed a child," I uttered._

_Jespar stopped, slowing turning his head to look at me._

_"I didn't know until I began looting their corpses." I laced my fingers together, pulled my hands underneath my chin. "At a hundred paces, you know, sometimes it's hard to tell. And some grow fast. So damned fast. Beards and everything. You know, like there's that cobbler's son in the marketplace, right, he's only fifteen winters and nearly as tall as his father, and it was just like that, you know? Near midnight, moonless, with only a low fire’s light, and he was crouched over, and--"_

_"Kurz." Jespar was there, hand firm on my shoulder. "They were bandits. They would've killed you. That’s what they do."_

_"I know. I know that. And I hacked them down like wheat." I looked up at him. His face seemed far away. "And I didn't feel anything. Like it wasn't real. It felt like..." I gulped. My throat was dry. "Like... like I was just playing pretend. A pretend farmer with a pretend scythe, but the wheat screamed and begged as it fell at my feet." I laughed. A small, nervous laugh that rattled up out of my stomach._

_He cocked his head to the side, eyes squinted. "When did you last sleep?"_

_"Two days ago."_

_Jespar sighed, leaning against the bedpost. "Well, my knowledge of the healing arts stops at liquor and peaceweed, but I'd say exhaustion explains it."_

_I looked back out the window. Same cloud. "Perhaps."_

_"Go to sleep, Kurz."_

_So I did._

\--- --- ---

Everyone was dead.

No, that was wrong. They weren't dead, they were... ascending.

Becoming something else.


	2. Reifung

"Every bloody day!" Master Ragon growled. "Must you make such grand fanfare of your entrance? Must horns blow when you take a piss?"

"I... I'm sorry?"

"The damned novices are already too rabbit-brained to rightly do their work, and you ramble on through with that bloody mercenary friend of yours, and then all the novices conveniently forget their meditations! Must you make so much noise?"

I glanced down at my armor. It didn't make too much noise, I thought. It wasn't like that silent, perfectly oiled armor the Keepers wore, but it wasn't what one would call noisome.

"Not your--" Ragon smacked his forehead. "There are certain hours of silence in the Temple, you fool! Every bloody day!"

"Oh. Er, I didn't--"

"Of course you didn't know!" he shouted, jabbing a finger into my breastplate. "What use does a mercenary have for sacred protocol?"

People were watching. I cast my eyes down. "When..." My voice fell to a rasp. "When are they?"

"They, you imbecile, take place at--" Ragon's eyes found the great clock on the tower. The anger ebbed out of his face. "... Right... now."

Somewhere in the Sun Temple, Jespar burst out laughing.

\---

Everyone in the training room was watching. They wanted to see the Prophet, the slayer of man and beast, the storm of steel and rain of arrows.

But I just stared at the training dummy in front of me. It looked... kind of sad. A few old sacks, stitched together and stuffed with hay. A cracked bucket for a helmet, a piece of driftwood for a sword, a slat of an old barrel for a shield.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot. My stiff fingers tightened around the grip of my sword. Too tightly; my knuckles felt like they’d burst from the skin. This was... wrong, somehow. Out of place. When a real breathing human or animal was in front of me, it was so effortless--how to thrust, cut, feint, parry. My boot against a downed bandit’s neck. But this... mockery of a man? I couldn't. I didn't know how.

So instead, I sheathed my sword and bowed deeply to the dummy. "I am outmatched," I said loudly.

A few scattered laughs and groans. I turned to smile at them--the kind of stupid cocky smile I learned from Jespar, that disarmed everyone in the room--and I realized that though I had no idea how to strike that dummy, I could slaughter all of these gathered people in the space of ten heartbeats. The ones that were close I would hack apart before they drew their swords; I would use those warm bodies like fleshy shields to block the magic of the arcanists; and the ones farthest I would clash blades with and kill at my leisure.

It was so hot in here. I could smell their sweat, smell their breath. My fingers, resting on my sword-hilt, became lithe and limber.

Calia was at my side in an instant, hand on my arm. "Let's go outside," she whispered.

When she let go of my arm, we were in a tiny shaded grove just outside the walls of the Sun Temple. A light rain was beginning to fall and a breeze was picking up, but I could hardly feel it.

"Sa'Ira."

I turned my head to look at her. She had her arms behind her head, gazing up into the canopy. A few raindrops were jeweling her hair and eyebrows.

"I'm sorry. It... seemed like a good idea, at the time. I wanted to show the other Keepers that you are what they say you are, but..." She sighed, covering her face with a hand.

I took a deep breath, feeling that oppressive warmth finally leach out of my limbs. I shivered a bit. "It worked. They saw what I am."

She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at me. "That's not true. You know that," she said softly.

"Calia--"

"You're--"

"Calia, I killed my first man two months ago."

Silence.

"But…” Her brow furrowed. “How can that be? You're one of the best warriors among us. You’ve never spoken of it, but... you must've been a soldier in Nehrim, right?"

I flinch at that, let out a shaky breath. Not from the cold. "No, I... no." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "After Jespar saved me from the Apothecarii camp, I went back. I knew it was pointless, since they were dead, and Jespar said I may as well take their supplies, but I felt like I... owed them, somehow. I don't know." I sat up in the grass, cross-legged, and rubbed at my knees. "I went back, and... there was a man digging through their things. At first I thought it was another Apothecarius--I don't know why I thought that--but when I got closer, he turned around and drew his blade."

It feels like I'm telling someone else's story. A story from a friend of a friend. A story from a family history.

"We just looked at each other. And I asked him if he knew these people. And he said no, he was just passing through." I licked my lips. I tasted rain. "I said that was fine, but I was ill and needed their alchemical reagents. And his face... changed." I lifted up my hands, trying to paint a picture. "It was just... rage. But a quiet rage, you know? Like... like a dog that doesn't growl, but bites hard." I shook my head at that poor analogy.

Calia tugged off her gloves and squeezed my hand. I blinked, my eyes feeling warm. Not tears. I’m a man. Just the rain.

"He lunged at me, I drew--and we fought like fools, stumbling and falling over the things in the camp. He must've been tired, because there was no way I could've beaten him otherwise. Then we ended up falling in the river, and lost my axe, but I managed to get on top of him and grabbed a rock and--"

"Sa'Ira--"

"I just smashed him apart, Calia. I beat his head open like a fruit, and he was still alive as I was hitting him again and again and again, and he was looking at me even with his brain in the open air. And that's how he died. Looking at me." I swallowed. "Looking at me. Looking at a farmer from Ostian. Looking at nobody."

She pulled me into her arms, whispering Qyranian into my ear, and I just stared into the grey sky.

\---

I rubbed the charred skin between my fingers, feeling it crackle and flake.

I glanced over my shoulder at the door. At this time of night, no one would be near Master Firespark's chambers--not even Firespark himself, for some reason. Lijam would be asleep too… hopefully. I focused back to the table, gritted my teeth, and lifted the blackened skin to my mouth.

... Tasted like salt and ash. And a slight bitterness. I licked the backs of my teeth, trying to pick out the gritty, tiny pieces.

Human skin tasted a lot like pig skin. And a little bit like roasted cow skin.

I sighed, bracing my hands against the alchemy table, head hanging. I didn't get it. There were alchemists who could make elixirs with the simplest of reagents--a few flower petals, a palm full of leaves, nectar, pollen, and distilled alcohol. They simply knew the right propertions, how to extract and diffuse, just the right amount of heat.

But I just didn't get it. Whenever I left the Sun Temple and the safety of Ark's walls, the forests did not feel like a--what did those alchemy manuals call it? 'A place of wonder and discovery,' or some such. The trees felt like pillars of a dead nation, the roots their skeletal fingers. Perhaps the Red Madness had soaked into the ground, been absorbed by the plants themselves, but...

I reached across the desk, moving the calcinator to the side, and carefully unwrapped a parcel of paper. A human heart, still warm to the touch, greeted me. Still warm from being tucked inside my pack. I almost expected it to begin beating again.

This had to be wrong, somehow. But... no matter how much I pored over those manuals, I couldn't help but notice that they all glossed over the human element of alchemy. A vial of body-temperature blood, a finely sliced lung, the inner portion of a healthy liver, a select piece from the frontal lobe of the brain... it seemed so obvious. What better way to heal man, than with man?

The concoctions practically made themselves. Held up the light of the candles, each glass vial seemed to be holding slightly reddened water--but to hold one in your hand, you can feel the magical energy swimming inside, snarling for release. Sweat prickled on my forehead just hearing them clink together in my pack.

There had to be an explanation. The few elixirs I managed to brew didn't sear my throat like acid or send me to the ground in coughing spasms, unlike those I had found out on the hunt or bought from Mirella Godshand. Mine burned, yes, but... a good burn, like dry old wine. It would run from my scalp to my fingers to my toes to my cock and then disappear into my bones.

... The arcane fever? Did those wild magi become man-eaters as they found themselves drifting further and further from reality? But I didn't like the flesh. It tasted... well, like meat, and I couldn't stand meat anymore. It was only that using human remains, alchemically, had become second nature.

I sighed, wrapped up the heart, and sat down heavily in a nearby chair. The candles threw dancing shadows across the walls. They looked like tiny dark warriors, swaying back and forth in an unending battle.

Back in Ostian, there was an old woman. The people from the other farmsteads called her 'the crone,' and you could gather why: she was hunch-backed, walked with a curious gnarled stick, hair salt-white and wispy, a voice like steel against stone. A hundred years old at the very least, we decided. But despite her nightmarish demeanor, as children, we would play in the meadow near her small cabin, splashing in the brook, trampling the flowers. The older ones said to be wary of the witch, but, really--how awful could she be?

Until one day she emerged from her cabin, slowly, like a three-legged beast. We all froze like short statues, stopped in absurd positions.

She pointed her walking stick at me. "Leave," she said.

We bolted for our lives.

I hated her from that day onward. Whenever any misfortune befell me, from a stubbed toe to a cut finger, I knew that somewhere that old witch was cackling at me.

But one day I fell ill with something strange. The nearby farmers' wives had no idea what it was, and my parents could only hold me upright as I threw up and shat myself until I was little more than a hollowed-out doll. They began asking where my favorite place was. My favorite memory. I was no fool, even at that age; I knew what that meant, but I had resigned to death anyway.

In the midst of the night, under a new moon. I was lying there, awake, in too much pain to sleep. There was a knocking at the door. Father, alarmed, sprung out of bed and snatched up his woodcutting axe before cautiously approaching the threshold.

"Who goes there?" he called out.

"Open up."

He glanced over at me, and slowly cracked open the door. And standing in the flickering lantern-light was the witch, looking more terrifying and fierce than every before. At that moment, I gave up--I knew that she had come to end me, and I accepted it. Maybe I shouldn't have stomped all over her flowers. Maybe I deserved this.

She shuffled over to my bedside, her walking stick clicking along the floor. She loomed over me, looking down upon me like a judging god, and frowned.

And as soon as she was there, she was gone. My father stood at the door, baffled, axe limp in his hands.

Maybe it was an hour. Maybe it was three. But out of the darkness, she returned--her twisted, talon-like hands clutching bunches of plants.

"Stoke the fire. Bring a mortar and pestle." My mother, watching from the bedroom doorway, nodded quickly and immediately set to work.

It was a blur, at that point. My mind was fading, and I remember playing with my friends in the forest again, but they kept running too fast, and no matter how fast I ran they were always just out of sight, and I called to them and they called back, laughing and shouting, but they were so distant I could barely hear--

"Drink."

I drank.

Tasted like mud and rot. I would have retched, but my body didn't have the strength anymore.

"Sleep."

I did.

When I woke up, my parents were shocked to see me swing my legs out of the sheets and walk, albeit unsteadily, into the kitchen. They threw their arms around me--even father--sobbing out every prayer they could think of. When I told them about the old woman from the forest and how she had saved my life, they looked at each other, laughed, and told me I had dreamed all of that up.

That didn't explain the tiny pieces of leaves stuck in my teeth, though.

And there I was, a continent away, playing at alchemist. I wondered what happened to that old woman. Maybe she'd help me. Maybe she'd be disgusted at how I'd perverted her craft.

I licked at the underneath of my thumb. It tasted like salt and ash.


	3. Härtung

It was gradual, at first. A trinket here. A bauble there.

I would return from an excursion, push open the door to my quarters and find something new in that cold chamber. Sometimes I wouldn’t notice it for hours. Sometimes my eyes would be riveted to it immediately. A handful of chess pieces. An incomplete deck of fire-singed playing cards. Throw-worn dice. Marbles of peculiar color. Curiously warped sticks and pretty stones. Flowers. Feathers. Books--not spell tomes or political theses or combat manuals, but novels of high adventure and romance.

Color. Life. Vibrance. 

I could have told them to stop. Told Calia and Jespar to just… leave me be. But I didn’t. After all, it was practically their room, too. Calia would seek refuge there when she had had enough of the Keeper’s scrutiny for one day. Jespar would just as often be smoking and reading, or sleeping off a hangover. 

Another day. Another slow, painful march through the Sun Temple, anointed in the blood of my enemies. Another slow, painful march up the stairs to my chamber. 

I pushed open the door with a grunt--my sword-arm was sore--and saw Calia standing with her back to me, leaning over the table.

“Calia,” I murmured.

She turned around, her face a mix of relief and worry. “Sa’Ira-- oh, Kirash, are you alright?” She quickly moved over and began unfastening my armor. I would have said no, but… I was so tired. I accepted the help, head hanging.

“Yes, I’m…” I paused, searched for a word that could describe this. I crushed a man’s chest, that day. Shoved him off of a palisade watchtower with my shield, and dropped twenty feet to land on him to soften my fall. I felt him break beneath me. Break like pottery. “… Alright,” I finished weakly.

Calia peered into my eyes, looking pensive, but said nothing. She simply helped me strip out of my aketon, brow creasing in worry whenever I hissed in pain. 

And so I began my usual ritual: cotton cloth to wipe away the blood, water and brandy to clean the wounds, needle and thread for stitching, poplar wood for splints, linen wrap for bandaging. The arcane fever kept me from using alchemical decoctions to simply come back together like a scattered puzzle, but I appreciated this slow way of recovery. It gave me something to do. Something where I didn’t have to think. Flow, I think, was the Qyranian term for it. And then I would get up the next day and sally out afield and tear open those stitches and crack those bones and widen those wounds and the process would begin anew.

But this time the ritual was broken, because Calia was here. Her touch with the cloth was softer, her stitching surer than my shaking hands that were still curled into a subconscious sword-grip. I closed my eyes. This was different. Strange. Pain felt different when I wasn’t the source. Less real. Calia was humming something as she worked. Endralean? Qyranian? 

“Bring me another souvenir?” I asked.

Calia blinked. “What?”

I gestured (with my left arm) to the table. “You were… doing something.”

“Oh, I…” Calia looked a bit bashful. “I was just noticing the shells. At first I thought Jespar was getting them for you. But I mentioned them, and he said he wasn’t, so…” She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Ever since the ritual, you’ve seemed…”

Distant. Empty. Hollow. Gone.

“Different. But to see you collecting something is… well, it’s heartening,” she ended with a small smile. 

I stared at the wall.

“… Sa’Ira?”

“The shells are a reminder.” 

\--- --- ---

Up and down the Sun Coast. My eyes twitched from the glare of sun on sand.

I washed up on the southern edge, but the current swept upward.

So I looked and looked. Stepping over crabs and seaweed and driftwood. Picking up the pace whenever I saw something that looked vaguely human--no, just a rock, just a shape in the sand, just a trick of the light. 

I asked every fisherman at the Ark dock. Every fisherman in Riverville.

Wiry. Blonde. Tan. Grey eyes like stone. I showed each and every one of them the sketch--the one I had begged Erica Braveblood to draw for me--and asked, again and again, “Have you seen this man? His name is Sirius.”

No. No one had.

Maybe he washed ashore on the other side of Enderal. Maybe another ship came across him. 

Something. Anything. 

I leant down and picked up a small chipped shell, a jagged crack running right through.

If I threw it into the ocean, it’d probably shatter. So I kept it.

Every day, one more shell. Until ten sad shells lined the table in my quarters.

I counted them every night before I succumbed to sleep. I counted them and thought, “Perhaps eleven.”

But I didn’t dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Unpolished and rough... but it came from the heart._
> 
>  
> 
> _Let me know what's good, what's bad._


	4. Dämmerung

I slowly opened the door. A mere crack between door and threshold.

There. Massive shoulders hunched over that grandly carved desk, coins stacked high, turning gemstones over by the candlelight.

I pushed the door fully open.

"Iffenhaus, for the last fuckin' time, don't bother me unless you--" He turned in midsentence, and his mouth hung open. He sprung backwards out of the chair, snatching up his zweihander (a heavy thing, not limber like Calia's) from where it had been resting against the desk. "You! Who the fuck are you?!"

"Knochenbrecher," I drawled.

His lips pulled back into a snarl as he shucked off the scabbard. "What--"

I drew and cut. A single, smooth motion, like a fish leaping from water. But he was ready with the parry. He hadn't lived this long without learning to handle a proper weapon.

I closed the distance, pushing so close I could smell his breath. The lord's chamber was spacious, but Knochenbrecher had to be mindful of the arc of his blade.

For such a large man, he held a hidden grace. He was easily a head taller, and every strike that I parried or blocked pushed me back a step. Like some starving steel serpent, my blade searched for his joints--but like true veteran, even when counting coin, he wore his full ambroly.

With a roar I slammed my shield into him, forcing him back, the wood in my shield cracking from the impact. I could see it, every swing of his sword, repeating in my mind, repeating in the air between us, tracing a silver whirlwind.

"Who are you?" he shouted, voice hoarse, shifting into a low stance.

It didn't matter. I advanced, shield high, sword low. Our blood painted a constellation upon the plush carpet. The fire in the hearth was too damned hot. My armor felt like a molten cage.

Cut. Parry. Strike. Strike. Block.

I watched his transitions--high downward cut into a thrust, side cut into a defensive step backward--and the combat manuals I've read somehow seem irrelevant. My fingers slackened on my sword-hilt.

He aims at me with another strike. I go to parry...

... And let my sword be knocked out my hand, clattering across the room.

He pauses, baffled, for less than a second--and that's all I need. My hand lashes out and latches onto his forehead.

I'm so close he can't swing properly, and I keep his pommel-strikes at bay with my shield.

I let the magic flow. My hand begins to burn--painfully. It crackles and smokes.

And Knochenbrecher begins to howl. I howl, too--because my hand is burning away, the skin blackening to ash and revealing the red-hot muscle underneath. The smell of cooking meat permeates the air.

He drops his sword, begins pushing me and hitting me with all of his might, all of his desperation--but he falls to his knees, and the struggling slows.

I peel my hand from his head--with some effort, as my skin has fused itself to his skull. His eyes have burst and are running freely into the carpet. Little remains of his face.

With a grunt, I lever myself to my feet, wobbling, and limp over to my sword. I pick it up and sheathe it with my other hand--awkwardly, due to my now-cracked shield being in the way.

Floorhammer will be annoyed. He had only just made it for me.

\---

Killing a fort full of people is not difficult when you are very, very patient.

It has nothing to do with strength. It is simply a matter of timing. Poison in tankards. Cutting the jugulars (yes, both, to be sure) of a sleeping man. An arrow that cuts the trachea and larynx so they cannot scream. The slightest touch of sinistropic magic, so a guard is just content enough not to check on the next room. So their eyes glide right over the contorted, hunched form lurking in the shadowed corner.

And when you find the body of a woman, cut and bloodied and brutalized...

Patience.

In the space of six hours, they were all dead.

Almost.

"Hey, that's--that's not one of ours! To arms! To me!"

Shit. I drew my sword and shield. Three--I could take three if I was careful. I let the magic course through me--more freely, this time. Raw. Wild.

The bandits advanced. I shifted into a defensive stance...

Now. Now they were all dead.

I was trembling. My nerves were burning. My teeth chattered. My skin was hot yet cold, numb yet sensitive. Flickers of red passed across my vision.

Too far. I had pushed it too far. I blew out an unsteady breath, blinking away the sweat--was it cold? Hot?--that stung my eyes.

"Are they dead?"

I admit it--I jumped. Down in the middle of the room... was a man tied to a chair. In the chaos, I hadn't noticed.

I slowly made my way over to him. "And you are... ?"

He scoffed. "What, you aren't going to untie me first?"

I looked at him blankly.

"... Fine. Hans Eisenhauer, yes, of the Eisenhauer family. You probably--" He stopped as I came closer. "... Malphas' foreskin, it's _you."_

"Eisenhauer... hm. No, I don't know the name. Are you an actor or something, or--"

"You're the _Prophet!"_

"I am. And... you do what?"

The man blinked. "Oh, right, right, you're from Ostian, of course you wouldn't know... I'm a locksmith, one of the ten best locksmiths in all of Enderal."

"A locksmith," I muttered. "For... that thing." I gestured at the vault door.

Eisenhauer nodded. "That's right."

"They contracted you out for this? And you... went with it?"

He shook his head vehemently. "No, you don't understand. These people aren't bandits--"

I snorted.

"... You really don't understand. They're mercenaries. They did ordinary jobs all the time--guarding manors, tax collection--"

"And murder?"

Eisenhauer sighed. "Look. There's a contract and everything--they signed on to be the personal guard of the Valstaag family. Acted normal for a whole month. And then..." He cocked his head to the side, in the direction of a headless bandit. "This. I had no idea, I promise you."

I just stared at him.

"I see." I unknotted his binds and pulled him up out of the chair.

"Hey, I can--wait, I--" I threw him to the floor and he tumbled onto his back, grunting in pain.

"Lady Valstaag," I snarled.

"Didn't... touch her..." he wheezed out. He looked up at me, met my eyes without wavering.

"Did you see?" I ground out. "Did you see what they did to her?"

"No, I--I... heard," he said.

"And did nothing."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"There's always a choice," I growled.

"No," he said, with a certainty that made me halt. "No, sometimes, there really isn't." He hissed and recoiled as his hand landed on loops of intestine. That had been a good cut. "What could I have done, Kurz?"

"Anything!" I roared. "Stopped them! Killed them! Anything!"

He shook his head. "I couldn't have. No one person could h--"

"I did!"

"You're the fucking Prophet! I'm not _you!_ "

I turned, paced, ground my teeth. Magic was a distant sound in my ears, like the crash of waves on a faraway shore, but my nerves were crackling with energy.

"The daughter," he said quietly.

I turned, locked my gaze with his.

"She had been hiding somewhere else--in the scullery, I think. I... I told her to stay there. Told her they'd leave soon. That the ransom would get paid quickly."

"You lied."

"I didn't think the vault mechanism would be so complex!" A short flare of rage, and then, his tone fell flat. Dejected. "I didn't think Knochenbrecher would hold off on the ransom letters until the door was open. I thought he was dumber than that. So I came back, told her that at night, when they switched patrols--"

"Told her to run for it."

"The guards were arguing, because one had overslept, and they saw her, and, and they--"

"Killed her."

"Tried to grab her, and she almost slipped away but they got her, and she wouldn't stop kicking, so one hit her over the head with the haft of his axe--"

The images were too vivid. When I closed my eyes, I saw it. The moment itself. Weathered wood against a small skull.

"... Hit her too hard. That's what they said."

I sat down heavily on a bench, rubbing at my eyes.

"I don't know," he said. Not to me. Himself. "I just don't fucking know. This all just... happened. And it shouldn't have."

I stood up and slowly walked over to Eisenhauer. Looked down at him.

"Do you have a family?"

"Kurz," he whispered. "Don't do this."

"I asked you a question. Do you have a family?"

"You're the Prophet. You're supposed to... to save us, right? And this, this isn't--"

"Eisenhauer," I intoned, "tell me."

He nodded once.

"In Ark?"

Nodded again.

"I see." With a deep breath, I drew my dagger, and at that he sprang to life--kicked at my legs, turned onto his stomach and tried to scramble away. But I had him, thrash as he may; I put a knee into the small of his back, pinned his sword-arm with one hand, clamped the other hand under his chin.

He screamed as I slowly drew the edge along his neck. Screamed as the floorstones became red with himself.

"If I told you I didn't have a choice," I murmured into his ear, "would you believe me?"

He never answered.


	5. Auslösung

The tavern was crowded, bustling, and above all, damned loud. Too damned loud--laughs, cheers, the clinking of tankards, fists pounding on tables, dice thrown across wood. Troubadors played and sang on the main floor. I strained my ears beyond their song, trying to hear--the creak of a floorboard, the nock of an arrow, the draw of dagger from sheath. Sweat rolled down the back of my neck. 

With a grunt, I shifted in the chair--throne, more like. But that overcarved piece of wood wasn't the source of my discomfort--without my armor, without my true skin, I felt naked. Like there was nothing between me and the rest of the world. Like I would just... fuse into whatever I touched and be forgotten. Just like that.

I swirled the hippocras, watching the steam rise. The goblet was still warm. I blinked, and tried to recall what I was talking about. Oh, of course. Brigandige. The only thing I know.

"... And, as it turns out, the bosses will have their most trusted minions swallow better-cut gemstones after coating them in wax. Usually lanolin, beeswax if they're lucky. So even if an outpost gets overrun and looted, the boss can retrieve the most valuable products. Well, that, and it's a bonding strategy. It's a very intimate thing, knowing that something someone else wants is inside you. I suppose it almost feels like pregnancy." I chuckled a bit at that.

"And you are the midwife."

I ran a finger along my silver dinner-knife, humming. I shrugged one shoulder. "Yes, so to speak."

"Are you a vegetarian, Herr Zehern?"

"I--what? Me? No, no. Not at all." I glanced down, and noticed that my plate was essentially a garden. "I... don't have a taste for meat, is all. Never did."

Silren steepled his fingers. "A preference to keep the personal and the professional separate?"

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Behind those spectacles... no, that wasn't malice. That was the sparkle of curiosity.

"Unrelated," I said with a shrug. "But I can see why you'd think they were." 

We continued eating. Or, rather, I ate, while Silren watched curiously from across the long table.

"How does this compare to your usual fare, Herr Zehern?"

I swallowed. "Decent," I uttered. "A bit too rich for my taste." I thumbed the silken tablecloth. I felt sorry for whatever servant had to scald their hands washing this thing. At least they didn't have to deal with blood, though. "It's a little too clean. When you dig up tubers or roots, there's always that bit of dirt you can't remove. It adds character to the cookpot. Different dirt from different places has different taste." I scratched at my beard. "Goldenforst, for example. Tastes... full, somehow. Textured. Deep. The Sun Coast? Lighter, softer. The Dark Valley..." I grimaced. "Well, you can imagine."

"As with all things, even good food is an acquired taste," Silren intoned. "Perhaps you should dine here more often. That soil cannot be a welcome apéritif."

"Perhaps." I set down my fork. "Speaking of soil, tell me about Borek."

He arched an eyebrow, but his usual mask of composure soon returned. "Ah, well. I am afraid that all affairs between my clients and I are strictly confidential, Herr Zehern."

"Just Kurz, Samael." 

"Herr Kurz--"

"Kurz."

"It is written," Silren snapped, "in the contract that confidentiality is of the highest priority. This is the case for all of my clients, you included. I would be very appreciative if you respected the terms of our contract, _Kurz._ "

I looked down. I licked my teeth. And then: "Summerstone."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hallys Summerstone. Farmer. He is slated for trial in the Sun Temple. Borek loaned him some coin after a poor harvest, and out of desperation, stole from a merchant's caravan."

Silren shrugged, sipping his hippocras. "May he be judged rightly for his crimes."

"I asked around... and this seems to be a recurring theme. Ordinary, law-abiding citizens, driven to commit fraud and larceny to pay back Borek's loans." I ran a finger around the rim of the goblet. "More curiously... it seems like the local brigands leave Borek's farmlands well alone. Why could that be?"

"Because his retinue is well-trained and well-armored," Silren said slowly, watching me closely.

"A retinue that seems to patrol the homesteads, rather than the countryside," I murmured. "I saw them, once. Just over the hill. I had cleared out a cave that a few brigands were using as a staging area."

Silren was silent.

"Yet the farms that aren't owned by Borek are harassed as one would expect. Moreso, really. Why could that be?"

Silren leant forward, his expression strained. "Please lower your voice."

I waved a hand flippantly. "It appears to be an open secret."

"A secret all the same!" He hissed.

"You know why I accepted your invitation, now."

"To blackmail me!" 

"No, to save you. With the Red Madness and the Lost Ones, people are getting more and more desperate. The roads aren't safe, they can't feed their families. Who will they blame?"

Silren shifted agitatedly, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

"I asked you, Samael. Who will they blame?"

"You bloody well know who."

I reclined back in my chair. My spine crackled. "I want his investments to start failing. I want his stock to fall." My face twisted. It may have been a grim smile. "And I want you to give out the loans, not Borek."

Silren looked away.

"Fairly," I added. "Low interest. None, for the desperate."

Silren shook his head. "What you're asking is--"

"The dead are rising. People are losing their minds. Magic is in the air." I spread my hands. "Anything is possible, Herr Silren. And with me..." I chuckled. "Well, that last cache of rubies I found will cover some of the expenses, don't you think?"

He looked away.

"I kill the brigands. I kill the vatyrs. I bring you the coin, the jewels, the art pieces. You can influence. The people prosper."

"You make it sound so simple," Silren said wryly.

"I make it simple." I stood and extended my hand across the table. "Do we have a deal, my friend?"

\--- --- ---

I vomited out my dinner in the bushes of the Barracks Quarter.

I just gambled with the lives of gods-know how many farmers and laborers, and for... what? Self-righteousness? 

I should've just killed Borek. In his sleep. Just a flurry of daggerthrusts, make it look like anyone. That's what he deserves. That's what these people deserve. To see tyrants fall like wheat. To--

I took a deep breath, banishing the thoughts from my mind. _No._ Slow. Steady. No killing. No one dies. Not yet. That's not the way. 

\--- --- ---

"In the course of a year, you've completed contracts that have been on that board for two decades."

I just looked at him. What was I supposed to say?

Along the wall were lined those wooden boxes--filled with salt, and more notably, filled with the severed heads of the bounties I had collected before. They were closed, yes, but I couldn't shake the sense that they were looking at me. Questioning. Waiting. 

I looked down at the scroll. There were a dozen names, connected by lines. Dates of birth, occupations, places of residence. Like a chart of lineage.

"His family?" 

"No," Staedtler said grimly. "His line of succession." 

Oh. "You want me to kill all of them."

Staedtler straightened. "In no uncertain terms."

I looked down at the scroll again. "... Some of these people are practically children, Sergeant."

Staedtler slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table, glaring at me. I blinked. "The moment you begin freebooting for Ralaf Crocco, you cease to be a child. Do you know why he recruits so young, Kurz? So his little rats won't know right from wrong. This one?" He jabbed a finger at a name, only fifteen years old. "Two murders. Five rapes. Intimidation. Do you want to put him in the orphanage, Kurz? Think an apprenticeship will straighten him out?"

I took a deep breath. "They... it's not as if they had a choice to be born in the Undercity. To be born Pathless." 

"They had a choice in whether they ruined the lives of the people they lived alongside," Staedtler ground out. "Only way to scour such rot is a purge--two generations up, two generations down, like in ancient times. But the Order wouldn't stand for it, and honestly, neither would I. We're not... _animals._ " He sits down heavily, rubbing at his eyes. "So this list will have to do, Kurz."

I bit my lip. The guard couldn't help me, otherwise they'd be putting their friends and families at risk for retribution. So down I would have to go, wading hip-deep into those slums, my blade testing the depths. 

"If... if they are so wicked, then..." I swallowed. "Then death it must be."

Staedtler bared his teeth. I suppose in his line of work, that was considered a smile. "Your payment will be in full, Prophet." 

\--- --- ---

I stood at the mouth of the Undercity.

My mouth felt... hot. Saliva pooled in the bottom of my mouth. My hands shook. 

And I felt it, cradled between my heart and my lungs, warm and sparking and ready.

Thrill. 

\--- --- ---

Strangled from behind, ending with a crushed neck.

Drowned in bathwater, colored by his own blood.

Poisoned by his own glitterdust, eyes open, smiling at the void. 

Just like Fort Valstaag. Slow. Calculated. Patient. Intimate. 

They needed to die. The less I thought about it, the easier it was.

I wasn't killing them. Not really. They had killed themselves years ago. 

I kept telling myself that. When I was the last thing they ever saw, I kept telling myself that.

\--- --- ---

They had all gathered to watch.

Miners, laborers, prostitutes, hired muscle. They had come to watch the two warriors wage battle upon a kurgan of corpses at the nadir of the Undercity. A sword against an axe. A stranger wearing a raiment of wet blood. Their oft-hated, sometimes-beloved tyrant, looking for the first time, afraid. 

"Crocco," I muttered, over and over again. "Crocco. Crocco. Crocco."

"Who--" he swung. "The fuck--" he parried. "Are you?!" he snarled, slamming against my shield. 

"Inevitability," I murmured. He was spattered with my blood, and I with his. His entourage had worn me down. 

My nerves were raw, tingling, from the electricity surging from Crocco's axe. The muscles in my face were twitching. Bright blue and purple and white blooms flashed in my vision. My heart was pounding irregularly, painfully. 

"Fucking sunchild," he spat, and I recoiled from a heavy blow. The crowd murmured. "Think you know me? Think you know us? Playing the fucking hero?"

I lunged forward--his eyes widened in surprise--and I smashed my forehead into his nose. He cried out, reeling, and leapt back to collect himself. "Not playing," I growled from a raw throat. "Being." 

Sword clashed against axe. 

"I want you to die," I groaned, shifting from low to high stance. "I want you to die so badly. I want it so much. I want you dead. I want to carry your head into the sunlight. I _want_ it."

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" he screamed, lashing out. He was right; something was wrong with me. But the smell of sweat and blood and steel had pushed me into a realm beyond reason. I no longer had five senses, merely one: pain. 

"Crocco," I uttered, just loud enough for only him to hear. "You will be my masterpiece."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Probably my least polished and worst entry so far. But it'd just sit otherwise._
> 
>  
> 
> _Here it is. It'll be refined when I go over the whole story again._


	6. Brechung

I opened my eyes.

Darkness greeted me with a closed fist.

I looked into that darkness, wondering if I had even opened my eyes, or I had in some delusion forgotten to, and this was simply the shade of my eyelids. I blinked--once, twice, thrice. Darkness awaited each time.

"I can't see." My words rasped against the nothingness, echoed back to me, steel on stone.

I heard the scrabble of movement next to me. "Gods and goddesses, you wake at long last. Finally." The voice was painfully loud, reverberating within my skull. 

"I can't--I can't--" My breath hitched. I lashed out my arms, groping for the ground, walls, anything--

My open hand caught an angular, grizzled jaw. I recoiled.

"Kurz, calm down. It's only me, you hear? Your head, it's--"

Wait, what? What is--what--

"--This is going to be quite bright, so shut your eyes."

Something coarse was pulled from my face, and darkness was replaced with blinding light. I blinked rapidly, pressing fingers to my stinging eyes. My brain was throbbing, rhythmically, as if an anvil struck again and again. I could only descry blurry, indistinct shapes--and one shape, crouching down, peering over me.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said dryly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

I stared blankly at him. My sun-seared eyes slid from him, to the rest of what the darkness and light had hidden from me--a roughly-hewn stone prison cell, spun with threads of rusted iron chains, the jagged walls set with shackles.

"Where... where is this? What happened?" I struggled to lever myself up to sit, but my head spun and prisms bloomed in my eyes. The man put a steadying hand on my shoulder, his smirk fading.

"Kurz... tell me you're joking. You took a pommelstrike to the back of the head, but--" Alarm flashed in his eyes. "You remember _me,_ right?"

I scoffed weakly. "Why no, Sir Varjojen Valkea Kuvastin Kajastus, I have no idea who you are, nor do I know your entire ancestral name--"

"All right, all right! Curse my soul for showing _compassion._ " Varjo rolled his eyes, but the concern still drew valleys upon his brow. "But... you don't remember."

I twisted my neck, ignored the needling sensation, and looked over at the barred window set high in the far wall of rock. It was raining outside, wherever outside _was._ Water pooled at the base of the wall. "No. I… don't."

He exhaled heavily, sitting down cross-legged with some difficulty, joints creaking. He, too, was mummified with bandages, crusted with dried blood and dirt. "Okay... right. That was quite the blow, so I shouldn't be surprised... where to begin..." He frowns for a moment. "We're in Skaragg, for one." 

I looked at the window, again, squinting. "That far?"

"Yes, _that_ far. We're here because a Kiléan noble's ship was raided and sunk, but not before they plundered it and stole away his daughter. She was going to visit some relatives and set up an arranged marriage."

I rubbed at my temples. That hurt, too. "Sounds... familiar. Muazan, right? The noble family?"

"Múa-Jaïzaan, but close enough. Anyroad, her father decreed a writ of execution for every Skarragian pirate in that band, but more importantly, a fine title for whomever rescues his daughter. Why he doesn't pay the ransom is anyone's guess. Pride," he mused, "even comes before family, for some fools."

"Something out of a bard's tale," I mused.

"Art imitates life, Kurz." Varjo scratched the back of his neck. I noticed he smelt… bad. When he moved, I could see new blood and old pus streaking from his bandages. 

"So..."

"So we and a vanguard of other knights-errant struck the band's stronghold.” He gestured to the cell. “Where we are, currently. Of course, they were waiting for us. Their longboats tried to cut us off inland. Once you remember it, you'll never forget it--we leapt out of our boats, cannons firing above us, and knee-deep in the water we were hacking apart those Skaragg bastards such that the waves went red, arrows and saltspray all around. But, ah, as you can see..."

"We lost."

"... I would've phrased it differently, but yes, we lost." Varjo stilled, and turned to watch the iron door closely. After a few moments, he turned back, voice low. "They had trebuchets lining the coast, and even mercenary galleons, cannons and all, can only withstand so much stone and burning pitch.” He leaned down closer, probably checking my eyes. His were a shocking blue, I noted, even in this light. “You slayed a score of their men, and severed the sword-hand of a chief. They're saving something special for us."

"Sharks?"

"Probably sharks."

I grunted. Not a great way to die, but... the Skaraggians had the mercy to prefer an execution method that lasted a few minutes, at most. Leagues better than the Petrified. "Are you well? Everyone else?"

"Oh, me? How kind of you to ask.” He chuckled. “I threw down my brand and shield to keep you from drowning in ankle-deep water. No wounds grievous enough to complain about.” I spied a lone drop of blood sluicing down his inner arm. “The rest… Most of them are slain; I'm sure their arms and armor are still being fought over. A few of the more renowned mercenaries are probably locked up with us, I’m sure, but this fortress is like a maze." He hummed. “I don’t like the idea of Skaragg pirates toting wheellocks, to be honest.”

I braced myself against the wall, forcing myself up into a sitting position. I let the vertigo run its course, blinked a few times, then focused back on Varjo. "Have any ideas?"

"Curious that you mention it." He withdrew a bloody, salt-rusted key from within one of his bandages, wincing. I winced with him. "The chief you so cruelly rendered left-handed? Well, his daughter thinks you're quite dashing--a dark, chiseled statue of a man, whirling dervishly like a Qyranian sandstorm in the seafoam, muscled bronze arms flashing, how sentimental--!” I cuffed his arm. He laughed. “She scrept in to see you the past two nights--how disappointed she was to only find me," he said, mock hurt lilting in his voice. "But she left you this. I think you should thank her afterward."

I shook my head, growing dizzy from the movement. "Not just one princess. Two."

"A virgin noblewoman and a rebellious chiefess, Kurz. Do keep up." He chuckled, flicking my ear. "I marvel at you sometimes, really, I do. If only these women knew you how I do, how their minds would change." 

"Oh, yes, how comical." I clung to the wall, scrabbling my way to my feet as Varjo supported me. "Let's leave sooner rather than later."

"We can give it another day. You need to rest."

"We'll both be well-rested in some shark's stomach if we wait a day." I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and opened my nerves wide to the world around me--the taste of salt in the air, the chill of the rain, the solidity of the stone, Varjo’s misting breath. And then--as if it had never left--I felt it: magic, pure magic, roaring in my bones, crackling and wild and terrible. I reined it in, concentrated, and let it seep out, slowly, carefully, into my cut and battered flesh--and my wounds began to knit and bind, sealing shut before my very eyes. All that remained were thin, pale lines.

I let the air hiss out from between clenched teeth, cold sweat rolling down my face. “There. ‘Rested.’ Your turn.” I held out a hand.

Varjo shook his head, pushing my hand down. “I’ve been healing myself for the past two days. Save your strength; if we’re to leave, we should leave.”

“Well, I’m not keeping you here.”

He shrugged. "Off we go, then."

The key protested, but with a some force we managed to appease the lock and crack the cell door open. Varjo stuck his head out into the corridor, glancing both ways.

“It’s clear.” 

And so we began our escape, creeping down corridor after corridor, up and down stairwells. The only light--grey and flat and cold--was afforded by the occasional arrowslit cut into the stone walls.

Peering around a corner, we spotted our first Skaragg soon enough--peering down through an arrowslit at something below. By the look of the steel vambraces accompanying his furs and leathers, and his Kiléan falcata, he had evidently helped himself to the spoils of the battle before. I narrowed my eyes. When I found the bastard who had stolen my prized gear…

Varjo nodded at me, and I nodded back; he made a dash for the Skaragg, and he turned just in time to be tackled to the floor. Varjo clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth, the other pinning the Skaragg’s sword-arm; I quickly moved forward, grasping the guard’s head tightly in my hands. I opened my nerves wide, felt my arms and hands and fingers go numb--

The guard spasmed, flailing against us with such vigor he nearly flung Varjo and I off. Smoke rose from his eyes and nose and ears; he fell still, and dropped limply to the floor. 

“Well done,” Varjo whispered, quickly stripping the man of his gear. 

I peeled my hands from the late Skaragg’s head, picking off singed hairs and skin. “Humidity makes them more conductive.” 

Varjo chuckled at that. “You’re so strange, even in times like these.”

It was a steady progression. We quietly cut our way through a score of guards, arming and armoring ourselves as we went. But try as we might, we could not determine the exit.

“This is absurd,” I uttered, perhaps too loudly--then again, there didn’t seem to be anyone remaining to resist us.

“Skaraggian architecture at its finest,” Varjo intoned, thrusting an arm out of an arrowslit to feel the rain. 

“What?”

“Weren’t you the one who told me? They carve their fortresses out of the volcanic rock formations, so they’re hard to spot from the coast. Inside, they never build in straight lines--slightly curving left or right, or grading up or down. Just enough that if an enemy warband were to breach the walls--”

“They’d wander around in circles until reinforcements arrived,” I finished.

“That’s the aim.”

We kept searching--for an hour more, at least. Which became two hours. We were stepping over the same stiffening bodies we had dealt with before.

“Varjo,” I said. “We’re not--”

“Just--let me think,” he said sharply, crossing his arms and staring at the low ceiling. “We’re missing something. A trap door, or a secret switch, or--”

“Or a door in plain sight.”

Varjo glanced up, eyebrow arched. I pointed behind him to a heavy iron door. “Oh,” he said. 

“‘Oh’ indeed. Let’s get out of--”

My words died in my throat as the door swung open.

It was another prison cell.

“Damn it,” Varjo growled. “We need to--”

“Varjo, this is our cell.”

He looked at me with a furrowed brow. “Must you jest? Ours was deeper in the fortress, at least--”

_“Look."_

Varjo looked.

A window set high in the far wall, water pooling beneath it. Chains hanging like strands of web, shackles like thorns…

And my bandages, laying abandoned in the corner.

“… That’s not right,” Varjo uttered. “Thaumaturgy. Structured illusions. This entire place is within a ward, no doubt. We need only to--”

“I don’t _feel_ any magic. There’s no ward. It’s just… this is just…” I felt my heart rate quicken. This place seemed too close, too oppressive, too familiar. Almost like--

“A dream,” I murmured.

Varjo glanced back at me. “What did you say?”

“A… dream. A dream. This isn’t real. None of this is.”

A nervous smile arced Varjo’s mouth. “Very funny, Kurz. But how about we actually--”

I shook my head. “No. Don’t you get it? We can’t get out. Because there is no exit, or entrance, or--or--”

“Kurz--”

“No!” I snapped. “This isn’t--this isn’t right! I don’t remember coming here!”

“You just said you did.”

“I--I do, and I don’t! It’s like--like--when you wake up, and you’re not fully awake, and you’re between the dream and the--”

Varjo grabbed me by the shoulders, giving me a vigorous shake. “Kurz. Stop. Stop, and breathe. You were hit in the head. You swallowed a skin’s worth of saltwater. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Swallowing saltwater.

I pushed him away. “You--you aren’t real, either! Varjo Valkea? That’s something a child would come up with--”

Varjo looked at me, confusion and fear playing across his face. His eyes flicked downward--to the falcata hung at my belt--then back to my face. “Kurz… that’s my _name._ I’m real. Okay? I’m Varjo. You’re Kurz. Kurz Zehern.” He took a step towards me. I took a step back. He raised his hands pleadingly. “I’m from Myar Aranath, and you’re from Nehrim. Your mother was from Qyra--”

“Sirius.”

“What?”

“Sirius!” I shouted. “Where is he? If he isn’t here, then, then I _know--_ ”

“He’s in Kilé, guarding the noble’s estate. What does Sirius have to do with--”

“Sirius is dead! He was stabbed through the heart, bound to me, thrown overboard--”

“Sirius is _alive!_ ” Varjo’s voice rose, a note of anger shot through. “Kurz, I can’t believe--gods and goddesses, you’re a bloody hero, Kurz! Ever since you and Sirius stopped those assassins in Qyra, everyone knows your name! You and he have gone to Arktwend, Melée, Arazalea, making names for yourselves. Coarek himself granted you an honorary knighthood, and the nobles were beside themselves. That’s how I found you, and you let me travel with you, because my family--” He shook his head, gesturing, trying to find the words. “Ask anyone, Kurz, once we get out of here. I just need you to hold on.” 

“Enderal.”

Varjo’s cheek twitched. “What about it?”

“Have I been to Enderal?”

He snorted. “No, of course not. No one has, not recently. The Order has closed all ports and has all their cannon pointing seaward. Why?”

“Because…” I licked my lips. “Because… I don’t know. There’s… there’s something…”

“Kurz,” Varjo said tiredly, “I’ve watched you for two days. You’ve been muttering in your sleep. About… people, places. Someone named Roccio. I don’t think you’re… completely awake. Do you understand?”

I nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’m not awake.”

I drew the falcata. Varjo moved--but he was too slow. I drew the edge deep across my throat, opening my jugulars and windpipe alike.

I gasped--and tasted blood--and fell--

And Varjo screamed my name--

\---

I stood there, feet bare, toes digging into the sand.

I remembered this place. The beach south of my home. Where we would come to play as children, to watch the ships crest the horizon, to chase seagulls. 

"It is truly unfortunate."

I gave a start, and turned--and looked down. A seagull was looking up at me.

"... Did you... speak?"

The gull cocked its head, black eyes gleaming, betraying the slightest flicker of red. "This iteration was engineered to be different. That goes without saying. Yet here you are, approximated Prophet, accurately and precisely where we predicted. No deviation, no variance."

I opened my mouth, and, overcome with utter confusion, let it fall closed with a click.

"No." Another gull landed gracefully upon the sand, hopping next to the first. "Of course you do not understand or comprehend what is occurring, or re-occurring. Limited cone of perspective. Limited and linear scalar logic. Stasis." 

"I... I don't... what--"

Another seagull landed, regarding the first two cordially. "Ignorance. Behold the primacy of humanity: ignorance, extending indefinitely in all directions from its focus."

"Yes, pitiful."

"Pathetic, really. To think they are sapient."

"A shame. But consider the environmental factors axial to the behavior of such organisms."

“Apologetics.”

The absurdity of being excoriated by waterbirds was not lost on me. "What the fuck is going on? What--what even _are_ you?"

The three birds glanced at each other, then at me. I felt myself wither under their scrutiny. 

"This iteration of the Prophet appears to possess minor variations."

"Insignificant."

"The killing of parents and sibling is not insignificant to a social organism. Consider tribal relativity. Especially the mortality salience of the approximated Prophet."

I seized up. "I didn't--how could you even--it was those masked men, the cultists! How could I--my own family? That's ridiculous!" 

"Internally conflicting views: perhaps a subconsciously maintained inconsistence. This is an interesting development." 

"Disappointingly small likelihood of success, however."

"Conceded. But worthy of monitoring, at least for our own... amusement."

I stormed forward, looming over them. "Enough! What--"

The first seagull looked at me, and I froze. "Awaken. Continue stumbling through the smoke, Prophet. Awaken."

\--- --- ---

I opened my eyes. 

Darkness was not there to greet me. 

Calia was, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rough, but the spark demanded it._
> 
> _Here's to Coriana, who directly inspired this one._


	7. Entdeckung

I stood there for some time.

In my mind, it had been quite straightforward; find her, speak to her, then continue on my way. No different than an arrow finding a lung. 

But my boots found grass instead of cobbled road; the trees hung their boughs low, the canopies darkening the world and throwing a shiver across my skin. The din of the city was smothered by those heavy branches, and in that silence my plan became much less logical.

And then I saw that red novice tunic, saw her, and my plan bid me goodbye and left.

So I stood there--for, what, a quarter of an hour?--wondering what to say. Sweat prickled my palms, fell from my fingertips. Killing a man was easier than this. Killing _two_ men was easier than this. I was a child again, my head full of nerves and my fist full of flowers, wondering if Brunhilde would accept my pathetic confession of love. But this time, Sirius wasn't there to pat me awkwardly on the back and push me onward.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, and walked forward.

She didn't notice me, and I was nearly looming over her. I could feel the intensity emanating from her, and I was almost compelled to step back--but I steeled myself.

"... Elia?"

She gave a slight start, standing and turning around all in one motion. She shifted weight from leg to leg--she must've been crouching there for at least an hour.

"I'm sorry--who are you?" 

Darkness pooled under her eyes. My throat was dry as a Qyranian well. "I'm... Kurz. I work for Firespark and Arantheal." No recognition in her face. I looked past her, to read the epitaph. "Are you okay?"

She stared at me as if I were headless.

"... That was a stupid question."

"It was."

"Can I start again?"

She turned her back to me, looking down at the stone. "I'd rather you didn't." 

I had walked ten paces away before I gritted my teeth, pivoted on my heel, and walked back to her. She looked at me over her shoulder--anger and pain pulling her face into a mask of angles in the shadow of the trees.

"If Master Ragon--"

"Who is it?"

She stopped, mouth slightly open. 

"I... want to know."

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you care?"

I shrugged. "I lost someone, too." She just kept looking at me. "I won't pretend to know your pain--I don't--but... I..." I took a deep breath. "I needed to talk to someone, to--to make sense of it. If I didn't, I would've gone crazy." Her eyes changed when I said 'crazy.' I continued quickly: "So, if you want--you can tell me. I'll listen. I know sometimes it feels like everyone has their problems, but--"

"Gidea."

I blinked.

"My sister. Her name is--was--Gidea." She looked back to the grave, and sank down to her knees. I carefully sat down next to her.

"Younger?"

"Yes."

I nodded. 

"Do you know about what happened with Magister Yero?"

Oh. "I do."

She talked. I talked--a little. Mostly listened. That's what I did best in Ostian--listen. To arguments, to life stories, to every problem people could put into words. I expected her to cry--but she didn't. She just sounded... weary. Weary of the world and its unfairness. Of the castes, of her family, of her own faults. And underneath that weariness was a spark of anger--dim, but still glowing.

Perhaps it was an hour. Perhaps it was two. But she had come to the point where she was repeated herself--with 'what ifs,' with blame at herself. I reached out and gently took her hand.

She halted mid-sentence. I vaguely recalled something about Endraleans being conservative with touch, but after being inundated with Elia's grief, it was a distant concern. "It's not your fault."

Elia squeezed her eyes shut. "Yes," she whispered, voice tight. "It is."

"No. No, it's not. You had no way of knowing. If you have to blame anyone--blame Magister Yero. Blame the Red Madness. Blame the gods. But don't blame yourself."

"If I hadn't--"

"Maybe Gidea wouldn't have gone to Duneville anyway. Maybe Yero would've gone crazy another day. Maybe Gidea would've been attacked by brigands, or, or--" I waved my hand, at a loss for words. "Eventualities. That's what you call it, right? You can't keep thinking like this, Elia. I know it keeps you up at night. I know it's what you dream about."

She just looked away, lips pursed.

"Because that's what I do. Every day, I think, 'If I had just stayed in Ostian, maybe Sirius would still be alive.' Every day. Every night. Over and over again."

We sat there in silence, for a while.

"If you hadn't come here," Elia said quietly, "you wouldn't have saved all those people."

I froze. I turned to look at her, and saw... what she must've seen when I looked at her. "Yes, that's... that's true." I swallowed, tasting salt. "And if we stayed there... I don't know what would have happened."

"I'm sorry."

I laughed. "I came here to console you."

"And you did." Elia stood up, dusting the grass from her tunic. "In your own way." 

I just looked up at her. She extended a hand.

"Let's go home."

_Home._

I grasped her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Shortest so far. But I always liked this sidequest._
> 
> _You may be growing annoyed at Kurz's seeming lack of emotional strength or self-confidence--well, that's the point. He has been made a hero, but he was never truly strong. He still isn't, here._
> 
> _As to how much that changes through the main quest, we will see._


End file.
